Oxygen
by OneDarkandStormyNight
Summary: Climax of one of those cases which our dear Watson never penned. When one is faced with the deprivation of that which he needs to survive, his only alternative is to fight to preserve it. First fic; do forgive errors. Excerpt from Hiding in Plain Sight.
1. Introduction

_I have not deserted this story…on the contrary, I am merely taking it down so that I can rewrite everything and make it better, and as soon as I feel it's ready to truly begin (in other words, whenever I get the time to begin it), I will be posting it again. I have several ideas for the direction I want this story to go in, so just be patient! :D_

_However, several people, some from this site, some not, have seemed to enjoy these first few chapters, so they will remain until I post the rest._

_Thank you for understanding!_

**Introduction**

"Holmes!" I yelled, not even bothering to keep the mixture of alarm and annoyance out of my voice as I was nearly thrown off of the door I was struggling to hold closed.

"Watson, please do be quiet. You very nearly made me lose my train of thought," the man answered without looking at me. His voice was maddeningly cool and untroubled, which made another wave of irritation roll over me. His voice now contrasted shockingly with what it had been just minutes before, when he was conversing heatedly with the smugglers; it had then been harsh and coarse, to match the dirty, ragged clothing that was also so uncharacteristic of him.

The old wooden door made a creaking sound as the men on the other side of it slammed their massive bodies against it, one after the other. There were at least five of them, all the size of bears. My weight, even combined with the heavy lock on the door, was no enough to hold them off for much longer.

"Forgive my rude interruption," I spat out; I was steadily losing control of my usually balanced temper, "but I for one would like to actually see another sunrise!"

"And so you shall," he retorted matter-of-factly, though I could sense a little offense underlying his tone. "But you do realize that I am not the to blame; it was you who decided to give away the masquerade."

"I had to!" I yelled at him, as the door buckled against my back. "What else could I have done? Rolan was going to shoot you!"

"That is where you are mistaken, my dear chap," said he as he continued to tap his bony knuckles against the cold, damp wall – why, I had no idea. "Rolan was merely attempting to intimidate me; he had no intention of murdering me just yet. I am too valuable a member of their gang. I have been working for nearly a month to make that so, I'll have you to know – and here you have ruined in all in one moment."

"Well how was I to know?" I cried, angry and embarrassed all at the same time – I never seemed to do anything right for him. "I did not even know why I was here, for God's sake, Holmes! You only dragged me into this blasted case this morning, you know, without telling me anything at all about it."

"I told you to stay hidden and keep silent," he responded, the irritation at my failure now obvious.

"Holmes, I swear before heaven, if you were not such a dear friend, I just might murder you myself!"

Of course I was not serious; I could never harm Sherlock Holmes for worlds. For one thing, the reading public would most likely have me thrown into a volcano. For another, though I hated his confounded over-confidence and unkind remarks at times, I knew that I would never forgive myself if any harm were to come to him had I not been there to prevent it. Years of companionship have taught me a great many things, the greatest of which that I am, and forever shall be, my dear friend's guardian – and as such, it is my duty to protect him, even when he needs protection from himself and one of his insane schemes.

Hence my screaming, "_Look out, Holmes_!" just minutes before, and ruining all he'd planned.

Honestly, however, I did not care whether my remark was true or not. I knew he would not believe me anyway; it was a miracle if he even heard me at all.

Before he had the chance to respond, the worn lock finally broke under the strain, and the door exploded open with such force that I was hurled to the floor with a sharp cry of pain as I landed on my bad shoulder.

At that very same second, however, Holmes cried out in victory, "Aha!", and was immediately followed by a muffled _crash_ and then the ceiling above me came crumbling down!

I just barely managed to scramble out of the way before a rather large bit of cement hit the floor where I had just been lying. I realized after a moment there was a wall of rock standing between us and the men.

The dirty water from the Thames came pouring into the little room from above. I heard their muffled cries of shock, drowned out by the sound of rushing water.

"You not hurt, Watson?" I heard the genuine concern in his soft tone, though he was trying to mask it, and saw the worry in his grey eyes as he stared at my cradled arm.

"No, no," I replied hastily. "Just a bit shaken, Holmes."

"Your arm…"

"It is fine," I reassured, a little touched by his obvious worry, "Just hit it a little hard, is all. But Holmes, how…?"

"I feared they would eventually discover my charade," he said calmly, slight pride replacing some of the tension in his eyes. "I planned ahead and set my trap of small explosives in the ceiling. Therefore, if things went amuck, I could lead them here. There is now no way that they can reach us; we are perfectly safe."

"They will retreat and flee the other way, Holmes!" I cried.

"Do not concern yourself, Doctor," he half-smiled. "The good Inspector Lestrade is presently awaiting them at their hideout. Unless those blundering Yarders are even more fool than I thought, the gang will not escape."

I looked down. There water was pouring in fast through the long break in the ceiling. In the little time our exchange had occurred, the dirty stuff had reached my mid-calf. I looked around. There were no other doors, save for the one we had entered – the one that was now blocked by a mountain of rock. I looked up. The hold was long, but not wide; not even Holmes' thin form could fit through it.

"That is all well and good, Holmes," I stated, my agitation overwhelming my admiration. "But what of us, then? It will take at least an hour or more for the workmen to come through the cave-in. At the rate the water is coming, the room will be filled within twenty minutes or less. We are trapped, Holmes. We'll drown!"

"Do not trouble yourself, my dear Watson," he said, a hint of an amused smile twitching at his lips. "We shall not meet our end just yet."

"Oh really?" I crossed my arms and winced when a pang went through my aching shoulder. "And how do you know this, pray tell?"

He did not answer verbally, just looked at me sidelong with a twinkle in his eyes and stepped over to the far wall. With a swift, single tap of his bony knuckles against the cool cement, there was a slight popping sound, and then a small portion of the wall the size of a small door opened inward, revealing another room. The water now up to my knees gushed through the doorway.

"It really was not difficult to find this passage. It was quite obvious to see when you examine this wall that there are small lines which separate the hidden door from the rest. Once inside this room, there is another door that opens to a staircase, which leads to an empty building. We shall be fine, old fellow."

I did not speak. Part of me wished to roll my eyes at him, but I knew this was not justified. The other part of me wanted to wring his hand and congratulate him for his brilliance, but I also knew this would lead him to believe I was not still displeased with his wily behaviour. So I did not respond more than a grunt.

He sighed and held his hand up, motioning for me to proceed through the doorway.

I did so, slowly. I was unsure why, but I had a peculiar feeling something was not quite right.

My fears were confirmed when the door creaked closed and a dim light appeared behind us, penetrating the cool darkness.

We whirled around to face Jeffery Rolan. The head smuggler and most dangerous and cunning of all.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes," said he, his eyes twinkling as he trained his revolver on us, "I must say that you are indeed as clever as I have heard." A smug smile pulled at his ugly mouth. "Though not as clever as me, I'm afraid."

"I should have known," said Holmes evenly, "that I could not fool you, Rolan. I take it you have known all along that it was I."

"You are so observant, Mr. Holmes," He was mocking my friend now. "I must hand it to you, you played me well at first. Took me three days to get suspicious enough to follow you. When I realized you were actually Sherlock Holmes, I was genuinely surprised, sir. But I have to say that I was quite certain you would notice me following you – I suppose you are not all as wonderful as the good doctor here makes you out to be, eh?" He waved his gun carelessly in my direction. "I think you have certainly met your match in wit, detective. Perhaps more than your match, I daresay." He chuckled.

I did not see what was so amusing.

"Sit." Rolan pointed the gun at two identical wooden chairs nearby.

I caught Holmes' eye. Another thing I have learned: Never make any move until approval is received. Sherlock Holmes always knows what is best (as far as matters as this go, at least, though I cannot say the same for day-to-day living).

He nodded slightly at me and slowly moved to the one.

"Bind him," the villain demanded, tossing some thick rope at me.

When I had done so, making the knots as loose as possible without acquiring suspicion, I took the second chair, and he secured me to it, tightly. I could not help an embarrassing sharp inhale of breath as he jarred my pained shoulder.

"Do not!" Holmes' voice was a vicious hiss.

It was rare that he let any type of emotion slide through his careful walls, especially something as strong as anger. I was always secretly warmed to know that my welfare was something that he valued so, that it would instigate that hate in him. Even then, I had known for some time that he was certainly not emotionless, as he claimed; he probably would never admit it to even me, but I knew he cared for me more than he showed. Most men would probably be offended or upset over his flat denials, but I knew that when he said "Your presence is not sentimental for me, Watson. I merely have you along for your useful qualities on a case," he was truly saying "I enjoy having you by my side, Watson, for your friendship." And so I do not push, though I can clearly see he is as fond of me as I am of him.

"Relax, Mr. Holmes, please; I mean him no pain. On the contrary, you and he shall both die painless deaths." Again, that blasted vexing snigger.

I did not comprehend what he meant until he had walked over to the door we had just come through. He pulled it open as far as it would go, and a small waterfall poured in from the previous room.

For the first time since this whole business had begun, I actually felt terror building up inside of me. Had this vile man actually succeeded in outsmarting my seemingly infallible friend? I could scarcely believe it.

I refused to believe it. I knew my Holmes. Eccentric and dramatic and – yes – maddening as he was at times, Holmes was never fooled, not by the greatest of cons. He was too genius for such trickery to shield his eyes from the truth.

Yes, I know my Holmes. I trust him with my life. He had never let me down previously, and I knew he would never put me in harm's way unless he was sure he could get us both out safely.

But then Rolan walked back over to where we sat. He looked from one of us to the other, his brown eyes glinting with a sickening mixture of malice and glee.

And then he struck my head with the butt of his revolver with such force, my other temple slammed into the chair. The last thing I heard before the darkness claimed me was the sound of the fiend doing the same to my friend.


	2. Chapter I

**Chapter I**

**Sherlock Holmes**

My head was pounding.

I could comprehend nothing more. Only the throbbing pain.

And then it all came back to me with such staggering force that I let out a small whimper of pain and frustration. I had certainly not been expecting his knocking us both unconscious – clearly he was more violent than I originally assumed. All else I _had_ been expecting, however, and I sincerely hoped Gregson and Lestrade had followed my orders exactly. If not, Rolan would certainly escape at the docks, where I knew he would be.

Suddenly I became aware of other quite significant things. Such as the fact that I could feel water up to my waist. And that it was rising.

And then I remembered Watson. How foolish I had been to allow him to join me on this bloody case of mine! I should never have allowed him to convince me to allow him along. I had known that it would be quite dangerous – there were so many of them, these smugglers, and Rolan was capable of anything, especially when desperate, which I unfortunately had learned the hard way. I had _known_ it! So why, then, had I agreed to have him come?

My anger dissipated when I felt Watson move behind me, and heard his quiet moan, an echo of my own previous.

I opened my eyes, but it was just as black as with them closed.

"Watson?" To my disgust, I could only manage a hoarse whisper, and even that pained my head.

The silence that answered did nothing to reassure me.

"Watson, wake up."

The water was rising steadily. We did not have much time to spare.

Fear began to well inside my chest. Ever since that fateful day as a boy when I had nearly drowned in the lake near my home (a rather long story, one which I may wish to tell in the future), I have been plagued with nightmares of drowning. Although the nightmares have faded with time, the terror of death by water has never left me.

Needless to say, this would have been the most unpleasant way to die for me.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, I forced my own words to sound as masterful as possible, for I knew, from multiple experiences, he always would respond to my command, no matter how senseless or impossible it would seem. Loyal to the end, is my Watson still.

"Watson, open your eyes this instant!"

I must admit it pleased me to know I was correct. His body twitched the slightest bit at the sound of my command and obediently answered, "I am here, Holmes."

It did, however, worry me to hear that his speech was weak and a bit slurred.

There was no time to worry about a concussion now, for in a few short minutes, it would be of no consequence, if we stayed in our present position.

"Watson, listen closely. You must untie my wrists. Rolan tied the rope round my fingers, or I should do it myself."

"I-I don't think I can, Holmes." He sounded weary and defeated. "M-my fingers are already numb."

It was at these words that I realized just how cold the icy water really was – it was, after all, the middle of autumn. My own body was unconsciously trembling.

"Watson, listen to me. You must do this. Our lives depend on it. Do not give in, Watson; you mustn't! I shall be here, my good man, do not fear."

I was for a moment afraid he has lost consciousness once again during my little speech, but then, "Very well, Holmes, I shall do my best. Though I shall never understand how you stay so confounded sure of yourself!"

I chuckled; I could not help it. Watson always finds ways to entertain and amuse me – thought most of the times it is not intentional; in fact, it is frequently either his unconcealed intrigue at my powers of observation, or his great annoyance at something I have said or done (or not said or done) that makes me want to laugh aloud.

His fingers shifted under the cool water and brushed against my wrist, wrapping around the ropes and tugging at them. He tried to repress a hiss of pain, but my precise hearing did not fail me.

"You did not injure your arm too badly, I hope, my dear Watson," I remarked, half because I was (though would never admit to it) indeed concerned, and half because I wished to distract his mind from our miserable plight.

"I d-do not believe so, Holmes," he answered sleepily. "It seems I have j-just bruised it badly. H-how is your head, old chap?"

"The same as yours, I perceive," I snorted.

Neither of us spoke again, the only sound our harsh breathing and shivering, and the quiet movement of the water around us. It rose to my shoulders, and my well-kempt panic rose with it.

My hope was shattering and was nearly gone altogether when I felt him jerk hard one last time and the ropes at last snapped.

I wasted no time in loosening my ankles, though my fingers were numb and trembling. As I did, the dirty water finally won and submerged me. Fortunately, now that I was free, I was able to fight the terror of drowning.

But now I had an even worse terror in mind. Watson's drowning.

My lungs were screaming for oxygen, but I paid them no heed as I removed my chair out of my way, as to undo Watson's bonds.

My eyes never fail me. And so even in the murky, dim water I could see the blood originating from Watson's torn and broken nails.

I thrust my hand into my coat pocket before removing the coat (for it was a heavy weight), wincing as my razorblade stabbed into my palm. I jammed it between Watson's skin and the rope and began sawing.

I had only been at my task for a few measly seconds when, to my utter loathing, I realized that if I did not have air I would surely faint.

Bracing my feet on the floor, I pushed off with all my might and shot upward, nearly colliding my head with the ceiling as I surfaced. The water was so very high.

I inhaled the quickest, deepest breath possible, filling my lungs, and dove back into that cold, dark abyss.

When I reached him again, he was struggling, yanking desperately against the bonds. It did not take my deducing skills to know that he needed air badly.

And I needed him to live.

_Dear God, please help me._

The rope around his wrists broke just as he went limp.

_Please, please, help…_

I took no notice of my burning lungs now, sawing desperately at the thick ropes round his ankles.

He could not last much longer. Nor could I.

_Please…_

The rope broke. I threw my arms round his thick form and pulled him under the water across the room. I then fumbled clumsily with the lever that served as a lock for the airtight metal hatch.

I was dizzy, but I did not panic. It is against my nature to do so when my mind is otherwise involved. My brain pondered so much at one time. I thought of Lestrade and Gregson, and of what their reactions would be to find me and the doctor lifeless in this watery grave. I thought of how blind and reckless I had been to allow this to come about. I thought of Jacob Rolan, and how I thoroughly hoped he would have a long and slow hanging. I thought of Watson, and wondered what his last thoughts were before fading into unconsciousness. I wondered if these were to be _my_ last conscious thoughts.

Somehow, in all the swirling of my quite overly active mind, I managed to find and pull the lever.

The force of the water flowing knocked me and my oblivious friend through the open doorway. My back slammed into a firm step – rock? – and then my body was once again engulfed by the river water.

To this very day it is a blur in my mind, but I someway succeeded in pulling my comatose friend halfway up the staircase, when there was a sudden blinding light above me. My ears were filled with strange noises – voices, perhaps? I tried to speak, but my mouth refused to move. I had the sensation of movement, though I was unsure of how I was moving; I felt as if my mind had separated from my body – I could not feel anything at all.

And then, rather loudly in my ear, "Mr. Holmes! Can you hear me?"

_Lestrade? What the devil…?_

His voice faded in and out, but finally I was able to focus on it completely.

I mumbled something, though I still do not recall exactly what it was, and opened my eyes to find the ferret-faced inspector peering down at me.

"Lestrade?"

_Rescued by a blasted __**Yarder?**__ This I will never be allowed to forget…_

"Mr. Holmes? Are you all right, sir?"

"Yes, yes, fine." I was not happy at this – not in the least. The frustration faded, however, when I remembered. "Where is Watson?"

He pointed a few yards away, where two awkward-looking sergeants stood over my comrade. He was lying on the dirty floor, half-sitting, coughing violently and spewing Thames water onto the dirt floor.

I leaped to my feet, without so much as propping myself up first, and immediately regretted doing so, when a wave of intense vertigo washed over me.

Lestrade gripped my arm, renewing the irritation, until I was able to stand on my own. I dropped to my knees beside by drenched friend, who had by now ceased his rattling, and laid a cautious hand on his shoulder.

Two tired hazel eyes blinked up at me as he let out a deep sigh. It took his obviously worn mind a few long moments, but then he smiled rather exhaustedly up at me, a small echo of the infectious grin I have somehow grown to adore. His eyes darted about the room, passing over the faces of the two sergeants and the inspector.

"I say, Holmes," said he jestingly, "I do believe we are losing our touch."

"Never," I reproached firmly. I sighed. "I will never get past this, Watson – saved the imbecilic Scotland Yard! It is absolutely disgraceful!"

He chuckled and propped himself onto his elbows.

"At least we survived," he reminded.

"I am not quite sure it is completely worth it," I grumbled distastefully. But as I helped him to his feet and he gripped my arm to steady himself, I rethought my statement.

"A bit of gratitude, if you do not mind, Mr. Holmes," muttered Lestrade.

The man had more acute hearing than I assumed.

"Thank you, Lestrade," Watson cut in appropriately, undoubtedly knowing what my next words would be upon the Yarder's bluntness.

I snorted. "What are you doing here, Lestrade? You were supposed to be arresting Rolan as I told you."

"Jeffery Hannigan and two others are at the docks," he informed.

I was not thrilled to have a blundering lieutenant given such a grave assignment, but I said nothing on the matter, for just as a cynical response reached my lips, Watson shuddered violently beside me.

"Drake, call Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson a cab," Lestrade ordered the taller of the two sergeants. "We must go to the Yard and get your statements, Holmes."

"In the morning, my good sir, if you do not mind." Though I cared not if he did.

Watson suppressed another shiver.

"We must get you to Charing Cross," I muttered in his ear.

"No, no," he protested adamantly. "I shall be perfectly well, Holmes. Take me back to Baker Street."

It almost amused me how a physician, especially one who constantly badgered me about my own health, could deny hospital assistance so viciously himself.

"If you are sure, Watson…"

"I am. I just need a hot bath and a bit of whisky." He grinned at me, more of that old grin to which I was so accustomed.

"Very well, then." I knew he should be fine, for I would certainly not sleep save a few hours tonight to watch over him. The excitement of the case would not wear off for at least another day, I was sure.

Just then, Drake appeared, informing us there was a cab awaiting in the street.

"Thank you, Drake. Lestrade, we shall met with you come morning, and then you shall have us for as long as you need us, I assure you. Good-night, gentlemen."


	3. Chapter II

**Chapter II**

**Dr. John Watson**

To the immense irritation of Inspector Lestrade, Holmes said not another word on the matter and led me out into the street, where a hansom predictably awaited us.

"Baker Street," called my friend up to the cabby, as he helped me in.

I was glad for his assistance, for I felt not well at all. My bruised arm ached something awful, my head aching even worse. My trembling seemed to be growing steadily worse instead of declining, as I had hoped it would do.

This wish was not for my own sake – for I had dealt with far worse distress already in my young life (especially as an army doctor) – but for my dear friend Holmes, who at times is wont to overdramatise certain situations, and I was concerned that he would overexert himself with his fussing. He had been struck just as I had, after all, and although he had not come quite as close to drowning, he certainly must feel scarce better than I.

I did not realize that I was dozing until I heard Holmes' voice say near my ear, "Watson, we are here."

He took my arm and helped me up the seventeen steps to our flat. We were very cautious not to make too much noise, for it was nearly half after midnight and Mrs. Hudson had been in bed for a good while by now. Not only was it for the fact that it would have been quite ungentlemanly to awaken a slumbering woman (especially one who goes over and beyond to care for us), but also because Mrs. Hudson is quite an insufferable grouch, as Holmes is wont to put it, when awakened because of one of our "little shenanigans" at any nighttime hour.

Holmes and I trudged to our rooms (and I am heartily ashamed to say that I was panting for breath by the end of the stairs) and changed into warm, dry attire. For this I was very much relieved, for my trembling had become much more pronounced.

By now my head was swimming dreadfully, and even the dim light from my bedside lamp was enough to entice the burning. My arm was dully throbbing and even when I had changed into my nightgown, I was shivering.

I knew this was not a safe sign, but I was not at all in favor of yet another hospital visit – it would make the fifth this year, for heaven's sake!

But as I started back down the stairs, the dizziness suddenly became overwhelming. I grabbed for the railing, but missed by scarcely an inch, and went tumbling head-first down the staircase!

**Sherlock Holmes**

Just as I emerged from my room, I heard a thunderous crash. Knowing exactly what it must be, I threw aside the pipe I had been in the process of lighting and ran over to where my dear friend was lying at the bottom of the stairs.

"Watson!" I shook his shoulder, but there was no response.

Worry, strange and rare for me, gnawed in the back of my mind.

"Watson! Wake up!"

He had suffered much worse than I these past few hours, and he had not been getting very much sleep as of late due to the war-triggered nightmares that still plagued him, I knew, for I frequently heard his suffering cries and midnight pacing. This entire experience must have been a bit too much for him physically.

Guilt once again rose.

"Mr. Holmes?" I heard a frightened voice behind me, and turning to see our dear landlady, wrapped in a blanket, standing in the doorway.

I felt remorseful that she had awoken (and after we'd done our best to see to it that she did not!), but I also was very relieved. My mind becomes quite useless when it is that my friend is ill or injured, and so I was quite grateful for her arrival.

She did, as always, understand instantly what we needed.

"Mr. Holmes, fetch a cab whilst I elevate his head. He needs a hospital."

Under normal circumstances, it would have irked me beyond my limits for a woman to order me about so demandingly, but I did not consider disobeying, and instantly rushed to the cold, nearly empty street.

My dear friend would be fine – this is what I repeated to myself in my mind as I half-carried him to the awaiting hansom and held him steady on the bumpy, jarring ride.

If only I had known then what lay in store for the both of us.


	4. Chapter III

**Chapter III**

**Dr. John Watson**

The first thought that filled my hazy mind upon registering the mixed stench of antiseptic, blood, and unnatural cleanliness was: _I am in a hospital._

Upon the remembrance of why and who brought me, the second was: _Curse Holmes!_

Before even opening my eyes, I was already trying to devise a plan of escape from this dreadful place. I knew beyond doubt the task was going to be more trouble than I was feeling up to. If I knew my Holmes, I was going to have the dickens of a time convincing him that I was indeed well enough to return to Baker Street this hour, for if he felt it necessary to admit me, he would surely insist on keeping me here for at least the night. This was certainly an experience I was loathe to repeat, after that long, maddening night of his pacing and fussing after the Killer Evans case* that I had been to weary to argue with him about the stay.

This time I was certainly not too weary, even if my head and arm were faintly aching.

As I half-expected, as soon as my eyes opened, there was a movement to my right and then his cool voice, "Watson? Are you awake, old fellow?"

What a silly question! Of course I was awake – my eyes were open, were they not?

"Yes, Holmes," I stated, pushing myself up to sit. "Now get me out of here!"

He chuckled as he leaned back into his bedside chair, but it sounded more tired than usual. It was then that I noticed the worry lines still present in his white forehead, and the dark circles under those silvery eyes.

"Holmes, how long has it been since you've slept?"

His eyes flickered up to mine, and he chuckled again.

"Ever the doctor," he murmured to himself I think, but I heard it clearly.

"Well?"

"Watson, I am perfectly fine," he told me with a genuine one of those twitches that serves as a smile for him. "You have been unconscious for nearly five hours, you know, old man. You had me worried for a bit."

"So I perceived," I answered, making my voice gentler when I saw that he was sincere. "What did the doctor say?"

"Dr. Thomas examined your head and arm," he said, "and said that you had a concussion and that your shoulder had been twisted badly, but was not sprained."

_Thank heaven,_ I thought. I did not know what I would have done had I been forced to wear one of those blasted immobilizing casts.

"The swim you took did not help your condition, Watson," he said matter-of-factly, though I could see the regret on his face – regret for what had happened to me. He blamed himself, as always, for any evil thing which originated from these cases of ours, even though it was after all my fault for ruining his masquerade.

"Neither did it yours, I am sure," I said, motioning with my good arm toward the white bandage on his temple. I knew that any words of comfort or reassurance would do nothing to change his mind (he has potential to be equally as stubborn as he says I am).

"Yes," he replied, his voice becoming cross – I could only dare to imagine what sort of a fit he threw when a physician, especially one who is not me, insisted on inspecting his wounded head, "Dr. Thomas did have a few unhelpful comments on my learning to avoid such…how did he put it?...'unhealthy activities'."

I chuckled at that. The good Dr. Thomas had only wasted his breath with his recommendations; how many of them we had both heard over the years! Still Holmes has never learned his lesson – and for that matter, neither have I; I doubt we ever shall.

"Have you considered taking his advice, Holmes?" I asked jestingly.

"Actually, I did take it to heart," he replied, his eyes gleaming in return jest. "I have seriously contemplated ending my present occupation and converting to a solid nine-to-five day job. What do you think of my becoming a milkman, Watson?"

THE END…_for now_

* * *

_Yes, only for now! Big angst and adventure coming up in Hiding in Plain Sight, so this is a little way to get ready for it!_

_Thanks for reading!_

_RIN_


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